


Odds and Ends

by NoctuaFoxglove



Category: Original Work
Genre: Maybe some MtG, Mostly Original Stuff, Other, but mostly random stuff, don't sweat the rating too much, might crossover into World of Darkness a bit, mostly what's here can't be generalized very well, relevant content warnings will be in notes before individual pieces
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24787438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoctuaFoxglove/pseuds/NoctuaFoxglove
Summary: Mostly just storage for random pieces of original fiction without context. Read at your own risk.





	1. Happy Birthday?

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Ableism
> 
> It's a fascinating experiment to write from the perspective of a point of view that absolutely repulses you and working with a subject matter that scares you. Playing with unreliable narrator. Has a sequel piece.

January 23rd, 2014

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALICIA!

[ _Picture of a woman with bleached hair, smiling and standing behind a red-headed child seated at a table. The child is staring at a birthday cake with lit candles, hand slightly outstretched_ ]

Can you believe it's been eleven years? I sure can't. How time flies! Especially when you're having so much fun and every day is a new adventure. 

But that's the thing about adventures, isn't it? For as much as the word has some fun, gleeful connotation to it, they're a lot more pleasant to read about or watch in a movie than live. And some days with Alie feel like I'm just walking straight into Mordor. 

[ _The "One does not simply walk into Mordor" meme; "Weren't we warned about doing this?"_ ]

But I'm sure y'all know me by now, right? I'm not one to give up. Life's thrown an army at me, but every day I pick up whatever I've got on hand and beat it back, and people on the street wonder about the crazy lady running down the streets, screaming at nothing with broom in hand. 

I joke, but everytime Alie's birthday comes around, I can't help but reflect. We've gone through a lot to set up a birthday party for her, just like we do every year. Cake, balloons, presents, even rounding up a few of the neighbor kids just to complete the package, though I can tell how much they really don't want to be here. Too bad, kiddos. My baby's gonna have a normal party just like you, and you're gonna like it.

But after all this time, her reaction is the same. Staring at nothing, rocking in place and making those little "eee" noises she does, trying to rip the candles off the cake and shove them in her mouth, that sort of thing. Eventually we can get her to focus long enough to eat some cake, if we're lucky. Therapy has really paid off; she managed to use utensils correctly last year to do it, even!

[ _Picture of a fork, "The most complex tool imaginable, apparently"_ ]

Ten years to use a fork. Eleven years and still not a single spoken word. Im sure every mommy out there dreams of having a forever-baby, right? Stretching that blissful year of coos and smiles on and on forever, without the constant screaming of NO and teenage angst. It's not nearly as fun as it sounds. Even less fun when the body and attitude grows with it. It's like it's the worst of both worlds!

[ _Phone video of aformentioned child lying on the floor of a grocery store as a pair of arms attempts to untangle them from the ball they're curled into_ ]

I wonder if she'll ever really understand what we do for her. ABA has worked wonders for the little things, but it's expensive as all hell and hasn't made much headway on other stuff. We've just given up hope on speech therapy altogether. I'd like to think we've been giving her a good education, but it's impossible to tell just how much of it she's absorbed, if that's just been a waste of time and energy. And here she is, sitting surrounded by all the trappings of a perfect birthday party when she doesn't even understand what's going on. Sometimes I wonder who all this pagaentry is really for, her or me?

[ _Stock photo of a sad child holding a balloon and wearing a birthday hat; "Happy birthday to who?"_ ]

It isn't that I'm trying to be selfish, but it's hard when every day is a fight to try to dig that wonderful little girl out of that shell. Sometimes I see flashes of what she could have been. What she might be one day. But maybe it's just hope against hope, because the next second it's screaming, or it's yet another meltdown in a grocery store, or worse (can I get an abuse claim filed against my own child? Just kidding!). But there is no force stronger on this green earth than a determined mother, and an autism mom is battle-hardened enough to fight God hand-to-hand and win. So I'm gonna pick up my tools and keep a'chiselin' until I break through. Nothing's gonna keep me down. 

[ _Clipart picture of someone taking a pickaxe to a mountain_ ]

If you'd like to get her a present, please don't get any nice clothes. Trust me, it never works. Just kindly leave a donation for our immense shirt fund, which will give us approximately one day worth of clothing before she chews through it. Hey, at least it's not my hand she's sinking those teeth into this time!

[A picture further away, showing more of the birthday party. The woman is smiling and looking forward, and has her hand slightly under the child's chin, tilting them up to look directly at the camera]

-Kathleen


	2. Happy Birthday...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: More Ableism  
> OC: Ariel
> 
> The thrilling sequel to the last chapter. Offers some clarification, I suppose.

Too loud. Too much. 

Everywhere's a new distraction. Bright colors, mylar balloons catch the light, hovering around my head and I try to track their movements, eyes sliding to meet them before I can stop myself. I try to read them but every sway they make blurs them more. The halogen lightbulb above hums in its socket. The heater's on and it adds its own low whine and rumbles to all the voices.

I know it's my birthday. I know how this is supposed to go. It's the same every year. But it's not one of the rituals that helps the world to make sense. 

I have a dress on. Mom said it was pretty. I like the color, but I hate the way the fabric scrapes my skin, scratching it off and leaving me raw. My hair is long, and it's pulled up in a way that makes my scalp feel like a heartbeat, still sore from being yanked into position. 

And they talk. And they shriek and they laugh. Feet slam on the floor. Silverware scrapes on glass. Mouths smack and chew and make my skin crawl.

Most of the spoken words are lost on my ears, swallowed up by all the other noises, but occasionally I can pick one or two up. Two kids on the other side of the room are staring at me and chattering to each other. Whispering. Giggling.

"We can put up with that *thing* for a while. At least we'll get cake." They say a word that feels like broken glass. 

How do I answer that? Words don't reach my mouth. They never have. But I like the sounds. I take a breath and make a sound and the vibration in my throat, in my chest helps me to find myself again. 

Eyes, everywhere. Countless spotlights turn on me from around the room in a second.

"Shh." I hear Mom hiss, for a horrible second breaking through the chaos. 

Some part of me recoils. It's not fair. Everyone else can make all the noise they want. I make one sound and I'm shut down, and it's supposed to be my party. But it's an anger that burns out fast. 

Being angry isn't okay. 

I itch all over again. My fingers and toes tingle as I start to forget where they are. It's like I'm vanishing into the chair, the table, my body disappearing in the noise and color. Lifting my hands, I let them flutter, and for one second I'm okay. Things make sense. I have my body back. 

Spotlights. A faint ripple of laughter from the other kids. 

Mom grabs my wrists and folds my hands into my lap. 

Nowhere to go. Can't get out. It's so familiar, being held still by others, whether by their hands or their words. But it never gets any easier. 

They're lighting the candles now, and at least the flickering flame is something to focus on. My numb hand stretches out slightly towards it, that little bright lifeline. 

Laughter.

"Hah! There she goes! Make sure she doesn't try to eat them this year!" Mom's words crash against my head. 

Maybe I will. Nothing else makes sense. The candle wax between my teeth, maybe even getting burned by the fire, would be better than all this awful noise.

"Blow them out, Alie!" Mom's voice drips with a sound like acrid sugar, "You can do it! Blow them out for mommy!" 

I can't get myself to do it. And I don't want to. 

One of the kids asks her friend why I can't do something so simple. And I hear that word again. 

Mom ends up doing it for me, but I'm beyond caring at this point, kicking my feet underneath the table. It's the only thing that keeps my world from whiting out completely, keeps the shutdown I can feel bubbling and struggling in the back of my head from rising up and bringing this whole stupid thing to an end. 

Without warning, I feel her hand under my chin, gripping my face and turning it up until my eyes meet the lens of a camera, like a big, unblinking eye. It doesn't hurt like eye contact does, but I can still feel it stripping away my defenses, leaving me exposed. 

Who's going to see this picture?

SNAP.


	3. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OC: Ariel
> 
> I'm putting all the Ariel works together first because there's a lot of them I'm sorry. Crosses into Hunter: the Reckoning at this point.

The voices spoke to me of potential.

I had precious little control over my body in those first few months of coming to the cell. But I was aware of everything around me. It was such a familiar state of being, really. My hands moved independently, guided by some invisible power. But unlike before, the voices spoke not just around me, but /to/ me. They knew that I could hear them, knew I could understand. It should have been terrifying, and in a way, it was. But in others, it was soothing.

They were affectionate and gentle, most of the time. But their demands were clear. I was too shaken to fight back, but some part of me didn't want to. In between the orders and rigid control was something else. Encouragement, some sense that I could become something more, much bigger than myself. That I could become _something_ at all.

The problem was, I didn't know what that would even be.

But I had all the time to think, look over the scattered pieces of a human being that lay on the ground and put them together into something that felt right. One thing I knew immediately was that if I heard my mother's voice, I needed to turn away from that piece. She'd built her own image of who I was, and every part of it chafed.

I remember one of the first things I did when I was given an inch of control. When the voices let up for a moment and I found I could move on my own, I knew right away what I had to do.

I looked for a pair of scissors, and when I found them I cut my hair off.

They found me on the floor, surrounded in the sheets of hair that'd surrounded my face before. They were probably very confused, and they sounded exasperated as the strange kid did something weird again. But I didn't really care. I was free. Lighter than I'd ever been.

I'd taken control.

Picking up the pieces became so much easier after that. Like the hair there was a lot more I was able to throw away. Gone was that scared, confused little animal that clawed at their skin, trying to escape the pain of just existing as everyone around them tried to force them to sit still and endure it. Gone was just barely pretending that I was some little girl. Finally I could throw away that ill-fitting shell and become something else.

I found my name. I was the little lion of God. A messenger, a minor angel. I'd hold out my lantern and do the best I could to light the way.

Theirs and my own.


	4. Alicia Blythe Does Not Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OC: Ariel
> 
> last one for a while I promise

"...So one of our dives into a vampire rabbit hole lead us to a missing persons case. Little girl named Alicia Blythe disappeared shortly after her mom got involved with a vampire. This worth looking into?"

"Come on. We know what happened. Helpless kid plus vampire equals-"

"We don't, though! What if she was turned, or is being held somewhere! We can't just-"

The blanket lump on the loveseat stirred, a face peering out from the tangle, faintly illuminated by the glow of a laptop screen. Nervous grey eyes peeked out, scanning the group as they talked, but their movement had quickly silenced them. 

"...You know something about this case, kid?" 

They didn't move, and naturally didn't speak. But the group was soon answered by a soft tapping of fingers on keys. 

"Yes." The electronic voice spoke from the tinny laptop speakers. 

"Yes? So it has to be pretty well known, right? Have any more info on it?"

More tapping.

"Alicia Blythe doesn't exist."

"...What? What does that mean, 'she doesn't exist?' How could they file a case on her if she doesn't? And there was a picture and everyth-"

A loud smack on the armrest of the loveseat silenced them once more, but the kid's hand quickly returned to the keyboard. It wasn't hard to get the message: no talking until they gave an answer. The tapping this time seemed to go on forever, the awkward silence hanging in the air. When the voice spoke once more, it startled half of those present. 

"I heard this story a while ago. She's been repeatedly making missing persons cases on Alicia Blythe, claiming she's her daughter and that she's run away from home. She's been up to it for years, as far as I can tell. Started a blog about it and everything. It's a lie, all of it. Whatever you've read, it's a lie. It's not surprising that she's gotten involved with vampires. She's crazy. Maybe munschausen's or something. Maybe she found a picture on the internet and is trying to chase the attention. I don't know."

The group looked at each other awkwardly, trying to decide how to answer this outburst. This is the most they'd ever heard the kid say at once, or type, as the case may be. 

"But, uh. That picture. It looked a lot like-" One said, before another of their number smacked him lightly on the arm. 

The kid had withdrawn, only slightly trembling hands could be seen from under the blankets. They typed almost as long as they had the first time, constantly flitting to the backspace key. Until the voice came again:

"Alicia Blythe does not exist. She never has."


	5. Vlasti Don't Know What Feelings Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OC: Vlasti
> 
> Vlasti isn't my character (he belongs to Coloursfall) but he's fascinating to write about. Very slightly crosses into MtG I guess.

People who call what I do "running away" are kidding themselves. They don't understand the freedom that comes with lies. 

Everything I do is dependent on lying and deception. It's literally my job description, to carry a dozen different names and faces, get close enough until I can drag the thoughts right out of people's heads. But there's an ironic honesty to it. 

I learned a lesson early on that so many others will go through their whole lives never understanding. No one cares. It doesn't matter what they say, how nicely-painted the masks they wear are, the sweet words they might say. It's still just a mask, no matter how much they try to delude themselves into thinking it's their real face. Underneath there's just, at best, apathy. At worst, it's a knife in your back. 

( _I change my masks, but I'm never without them_ )

Maybe I'm just the only one with enough sense to say fuck the waiting. Fuck the pretense and the niceities. If the world's going to conceal a knife, I'm going to have more and be quicker on the draw. And it's not going to be me bleeding out on the floor. Not now, not ever. 

( _If I keep it on, I'll be safe._ )

And that's why I'm immune from death. Because every day I stare it in the eyes, in the faces of every single person that I see. Maybe they won't strike out at me, but they can. And because they can, I'm always ready for whatever might happen. I know the slightest movements, the changes of expression, the best places for a person to reach for a hidden weapon. And every single time, by the time they've grabbed it, it's too late. 

( _What's underneath my masks? I've forgotten._ )

Some might think that I'm missing something. How can a person possibly survive without love? Without companionship? Without trust? It's a stupid sentiment when you have living proof standing directly in front of you. The satisfaction of a job well done, knowing you've succeeded and will survive another day without whimpering and crying out for help is plenty. 

_(Did I ever really know?)_

I know who I am. I know _what_ I am.

_(I'm laid out bare in front of you. I don't know who or what you see.)_

I'm someone who's risen above need. Risen above weakness and vulnerability. Survived when in all logic I should have died. Doesn't that, in a way, make me something better? Hell if I know. All I know is what I can live without. And I don't see any reason to burden myself with things I don't need. Travelling light is safer. The less that others can take from you.

( _I'm not sure if I'm human._ )

And when you leave nothing that can be taken from you, the easier it is to move unnoticed. People won't pay attention to you if you have nothing they want. 

( _I've shown you too much. All I can do is wait for what you'll take away from me._ )

Not like it matters anyway. My back is covered. Untouchable. 

( _But you won't, will you?_ )

I'll never be vulnerable. Never caught off-guard. 

( _And that's why I need you._ )

I will never die. 

( _It would mean leaving you behind._ )


	6. Imbuing: Stan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OCs: Stan (Another one of Coloursfall's boys. Considerably more baby than usual.)
> 
> Crosses over into Hunter: the Reckoning
> 
> Hi. I'm Stanford Farkas. And my life? Is kinda crazy.

Turned 18 today. Hoo-fucking-ray. Only now do my parents choose to acknowledge I exist. They want to take me somewhere real special, they say. 

I guess my upbringing could have been worse, as I look back. Less horrible and more really weird. For me and my brothers and sisters, we were like latchkey kids on steroids. Ever since I can remember, we had to do everything on our own, and most of the younger ones were pretty much raised by me. Sure, our parents would show up every now and then and throw some food and supplies at us, but even those rare occasions they were actually there, they were... weird. Like they were barely human. Any kindness they showed felt scripted, and more than anything they just wanted to go back to whatever they were doing. None of us knew where they were all day. I assume they had jobs because we usually had food, but the house was always dirty and cold. Least they weren't beating us or anything.

The most fucked up thing though, is that sometimes, they would take one of my siblings with them, around their 13th birthday. The kid they took would never come back. That, more than anything, freaked us out. No one knew why those kids in particular were taken, or which one of us would be next. Every time they would tell that kid that they were going somewhere special. Just like I was today. 

Maybe I'll see them again, get reassured that they're even still alive. 

I'm in the car with them right now, some beat-up old station wagon that kind of stinks like wet dog and... is that blood? Yeah. It's faint, but there's some dried blood on the floor. I'm starting to get freaked out, and I ask them what's going on. They tell me that everything's okay, and that I'm finally going to get to understand my "purpose." 

What the fuck does that mean? What purpose? Were mom and dad just fucking cultists this entire time? Wouldn't be surprising, but I don't want any part of this. I can't get out. My heart is pounding in my throat and I'm scared as hell. 

They finally pull over in front of a surprisingly nice-looking silver building. There's a name printed on it in big silver letters, MAGODON or something, but honestly I couldn't give less of a shit considering what else is going on. They order me to follow them. Fuck this. I try to struggle, but dad grabs my arm hard, hard enough that I can feel the bruise start to grow in the shape of his hand. For a second, I swear I see a flash of patchy fur rippling up his arm. What the fuck? I'm going crazy. 

They drag me inside, and no one even bats an eye at me or my parents. They just glance over, smiling. Holy shit, this really is a cult. I didn't even think such things were real, but here I am, being shoved down, down down what seems like endless flights of stairs. 

It's dark. There's a bunch of other people here, some of them normal humans, some of them massive. Wolves on two legs, with twisted grins and patchy fur. Just like what I saw before. They're all... staring at me... laughing... as they pull me further in. Everything fucking reeks, the smell of blood becoming overwhelming, some disgusting, nauseous heat worming its way into my stomach as I spiral down further. 

And further.

And-

< _collapse the pit_ >

  
\---

  
Those words ring through my head, a constant, soft whisper, but I don't know what happened. I'm covered in blood, and clutched in my hand is a metal bar, covered in bits of fur and muscle tissue. More importantly, I'm running, only now aware that my chest aches and I'm out of breath from running up stairs. I almost fall on my face as I skid to a stop, try to assess what happened. But the stairway is dead silent except for my panting, and slowly the voice in my head starts to change its words. 

< _Good work._ >

Good work? What the fuck did I do? Did I, some dumb kid, really kill that entire pit with a stick? I try to ask the voices, but they don't have an answer for me, content to just let me stand there stupidly in the dark. 

Whatever. I guess the important thing is, I'm free now, and I escaped whatever freak cult ritual or whatever they were going to subject me to. I should just get the hell out of here as soon as possible. 

When I reach the top, I see the secretary with a dumb, stunned look on her face... Except she's not human. She's got the same stink on her as was down in the pit, doesn't she? A twisted, horrible monster. Not important. I have to get out of h-


	7. Imbuing: Ariel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OCs: Ariel (At about 12 years old)
> 
> i'm sorry i know i said i was done writing them but i actually lied. Also crosses into Hunter: the Reckoning. 
> 
> Content Warning: Something that isn't exactly threatened sexual assault but *boy howdy does it sound like it.*

By this point, I'm used to not getting much sleep. But it's kind of nice, laying down in the dark with blankets piled over me. It's quiet. No one telling me what to do. A break from school and therapy and Mom and Noah and constant noise. Even if I'm not allowed to get up. I get to be myself, whatever that means by this point. 

I hear the front door open. Voices. One of them's definitely Mom, but there's a man's voice too. It's not Dad. He's been out of the picture for a while now, and I know enough that he's not coming back. It's not Noah, either, but someone I've never heard before. I go as quiet as I can, and try to listen.

"...Come on, you can put that thing away while you're here," Mom says, laughing a little, "In my home, you don't have to settle for that _juice box_. Wouldn't a fresh drink be much nicer?"

"We talked about this," the man says with a sigh, "You're a wonderful new employee, but you're just not my type."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing personal. Just the way things are." the man says casually, "I have no control over it. The blood demands what it will."

"So that comment about redheads wasn't a joke?" 

"It was not." 

They both go quiet for a second. But before I have a chance to figure out what they were talking about, Mom speaks up again. 

"...Alicia has red hair."

I feel my heart stop in my chest.

"...Your daughter?"

"Well, it's more of a strawberry blonde. But it should be close enough, right?"

"I suppose. She's the one that can't speak, right?" The man's voice changes. He sounds more like a wolf now. 

"That's right. She won't tell anyone." Mom says, "You'd be doing me a favor, honestly. It'd probably settle her down somewhat."

The man laughs, "Well, if it's for the best, then who am I to say no?" 

"She should still be asleep. If you're careful, you might not even wake her up."

"Right..." the man growls, "Give me a moment, then..."

I've wrapped the blankets tight around myself. What they said doesn't make that much sense to me, but my heart is trying to escape my chest. My stomach twists hard and it takes everything I have not to throw up. I'm locked into place no matter how much my body wants to run. Because that's what you're supposed to do. Stay still and be good. No sound, no movement. Let them do what they want to you. But the more I think about it, the more everything threatens to shut down.

He's going to hurt me, and Mom wants it to happen. 

It's not fair. 

< _It's not fair._ >

That wasn't me.

< _You can be more than this._ >

It's a voice in my head. Not mine. None that I've ever heard before. But it's talking to _me_. 

Not around me. _To_ me. 

< _He is not human._ > < _A leech._ > < _A monster._ > More voices now, < _He must be put down._ >

But how am I supposed to do that? I'm just a kid. A broken kid. 

< _We can show you._ > < _If you accept._ > < _Let us in._ > < _We will give you purpose._ > <Y _ou can be so much more than this._ > < _Please answer us, little angel._ > < _There isn't much time._ >

It's starting to get overwhelming. More and more voices fight for attention in my head. But as loud as they are, they make something feel warm in my chest. Because for just a second, I think about what it'd be like if they were right. If there was something better. If maybe there's somewhere that I can be a person for once instead of something about to be thrown away. 

Yes. I want this. More than I've wanted anything in my entire life. 

My body unlocks, and I sit up. 

And see the man in the doorway. The voices, still shouting away in my head, were right. He's not human, his face sunken in and his eyes bloodshot, skin leathery and stretched right over bone. A pair of fangs push down past his lips. He doesn't look real, more like a Halloween decoration that came to life, but the voices tell me just how real he is. 

He makes a huffing noise in his throat and walks over to me. His hand wraps around my chin, cold and bloodless-pale, and tilts my head up to stare him right into his dead, glassy eyes.

" _Go to sleep_." He says. It burns more than it usually would. His stare tries to force the words into my head, get me to obey them. 

But I don't feel like it. The words fizzle into nothing.

Suddenly, my body grows very hot, a pressure in my chest like nothing I've ever felt before. My face feels like it's on fire. Suddenly he's turned into every single unfair moment of my life, everything I've ever hated, everything that's ever made me feel dumb and powerless, as if they all came together into one ugly, horrible person. 

He's let go of me by this point, his stupid eyes wide, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water and backing away towards the door. He looks scared. 

Good. 

I reach over to the table beside my bed for the first thing I can grab; a storybook I never really paid much attention to. The heat in my body runs right into it, making it light up the room with bright flames. The voices are telling me what to do, but I don't need them to. 

Before he can make a noise, I swing it forward. It takes his head right off of his neck as easily as if I was just cutting through air. It explodes into dust the second it hits the ground, and his body follows soon afterwards. 

I killed him. I killed him and I'm not sorry. I killed him and I've never felt better in my life. 

I almost double over as the voices get louder again, almost screaming now, as they tell me I need to leave before Mom sees what I did. But I don't know what's on the other side of all this. My head turns to my bedroom window. It's so dark out there, barely lit up by streetlights. But they tell me, over and over and over, that's where I need to go. 

It's dark out there, but my bedroom is a lot darker now. I can hear someone coming down the stairs. It's now or never. Run, or be trapped.  
  
The choice is clear. I do what, in my old life, I never would have been allowed to do. 

But those old rules don't matter now. I just have to trust that whoever's taken me in, that theirs are better.


End file.
